


Fall for Me

by thisemptyheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drugs, John's dead but not really, M/M, Multiple Pov, Mycroft is actually a really good brother, Please Forgive me, Self-Harm, attempted suicide, i'm a horrible person for writing this, there's porn eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisemptyheart/pseuds/thisemptyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where John was the one who faked his death, Sherlock is having a very difficult time. He hasn't left Baker Street in the year that John has been gone. </p>
<p>"Sherlock, you need to get out of bed." Mycroft's tone is stern and his arms are crossed.<br/>"You can't make me," Sherlock grumbles. "I don't want to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is really difficult to write so like... forgive me. I know it hurts. It'll get better, I promise.

_Even the best fall down sometimes._

_Even the wrong words seem to rhyme._

_Out of the dark that fills your mind_

_I somehow find_

_You and I collide._

 

**PROLOGUE**

“That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“No. John!”

The army doctor throws his phone aside and takes a deep breath.

Sherlock shakes his head. “John!”

John holds his arms out and falls forward, closing his eyes.

\-----

\-----

"Sherlock, you need to get out of bed." Mycroft's tone is stern and his arms are crossed.

"You can't make me," Sherlock grumbles. "I don't want to."

The elder Holmes rolls his eyes and sits on the bed. “Brother, I need you for a case.”

Sherlock snorts and burrows deeper in his cave of blankets. “I don’t want to do a case. I want to mope.”

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head. “Sherlock, you need to get out of bed and face this. I know how much it hurts—”

Sherlock turns over and glares at his brother. “How would  _you_  know?” he growls. “How the hell would you know what I’m feeling? How would you know how much I hurt? How much I just…” He shakes his head and buries his face in his pillow again. “You don’t know anything.”

Mycroft bites his lip and rubs Sherlock’s side, looking down at the sheets. “You’re right, brother. I have no idea how you’re feeling. I shouldn’t have said anything. But Sherlock, I believe in you. I believe you can do this. You need a better coping mechanism than sitting around sulking all day. You haven’t left Baker Street in eleven months. I’m not sure when you last showered.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and sits up slowly. “Leave, Mycroft. I’ll get up. Just go.”

The older man stands up and nods at Sherlock before grabbing his umbrella and heading out of the room. He walks into the sitting room and stops for a moment, looking around. The whole flat is covered in a thick layer of dust. Most things are untouched from when Sherlock last came home. He had knocked over pretty much everything in his path that evening, completely blind to anything that wasn't his bed.

It was an awful night. Mycroft had come over, tried to comfort his brother. That hadn't worked. Sherlock was absolutely inconsolable. Nothing worked. 

Now, as Mycroft is leaving the flat again, he's reminded of Sherlock's childhood and young-adulthood. Sherlock had never been one to make friends. He was always spewing off deductions about everyone and generally making people angry. After a while, he started not caring about what other people thought and made a few "friends." Well, friends wasn't really the word. More like the wrong crowd. All the wrong people. 

Eventually, Sherlock was in so deep that he rarely ever came home sober. Mycroft stepped in at that point and quite literally dragged Sherlock out of his hole. He sent his brother to rehab and made him stay, regardless of Sherlock's protests and threats. 

Four months later, Sherlock was back in the real world, finishing his schooling. He was completely clean.

Now, Mycroft sighs heavily and exits his brother's flat.

\-----

Sherlock finally gets out of bed about three hours after Mycroft leaves. He sighs and sits up, looking around. His room is horribly messy. He's touched very little in the past eleven months. The detective swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stares at the ground. He can't do this. He can't do anything without John. His John. His John who's now dead. And it's his own fault. He should've done something. Should've made John stop. And why would John do this to him? John would never do that! Not his John, not--

Sherlock stops. He's going to have another panic attack if he keeps thinking like this. John's gone and he's just going to have to get over it.

Nope, can't do that either. 

The consulting detective frowns and stands up. It takes much more effort than he remembered. He takes one step and a deep breath. His first step out of bed in three days. Sherlock suddenly remembers how hungry he is and starts out of the room, toward the kitchen. He needs food. Or whatever passes for food in his cupboards.

Sherlock gets to the kitchen and rolls his eyes. The room has been well kept. Mycroft has obviously been keeping his food supply stocked, in the off chance that Sherlock ever exited his room in need of food. Unlikely, but it occasionally happened. Such as now.

The man gets the kettle from where it had been stocked and fills it with water before setting it on the stove to boil. He takes a deep breath and goes to the fridge, opening it. Inside, there’s milk, butter, cheese, the essentials. And cakes. Mycroft bought him cakes. Sherlock should’ve guessed that. He smiles slightly (maybe the first time in eleven months) and grabs a cake. The kettle boils and the detective gets a mug and a teabag from the cupboard. He takes the kettle and pours the water into his mug and then adds the teabag.

Sherlock sighs quietly and turns, setting the mug and cake on the table before sitting down. He closes his eyes for a moment, his mind suddenly filled with memories of John and himself at this table. The dinners they occasionally ate. The experiments Sherlock used to do and John, who would simply roll his eyes in frustration. Now, Sherlock opens his eyes again and realizes he’s gripping his mug much too tightly. He lets up just slightly and takes a deep breath. He picks up the mug and takes a long sip, grateful for the warm tea. Comforting. Reminds him of John. _Dammit._

He shakes his head and sets the mug down again. He picks up the cake and stares at it. These are the kind Mycroft likes. Who knows how good they are? If Sherlock’s ever had them before, he’s deleted the memory. Useless information. He slowly takes a bite and chews. Not bad. Very sweet. The chocolate’s a bit much.

Sherlock slowly finishes the cake and takes another sip of his tea. It’s going to be a long day.

\-----

“Sherlock. You haven’t called in a while. How are things?” Lestrade’s voice is tired and worn out. _Arguing with Mycroft, then. Wonder why._

“It’s… it’s been strange.” The detective takes a few deep breaths. “So. Have any cases?”

Lestrade blinks. “Er… sure. But do you really want a case?”

“Of course I want a case, Graham. I need something to do. Haven’t taken a case in ages.”

“Eleven months, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Pause. “Is there a case?”

“Yeah. Sure. Should I email you?” _Is that concern in his voice?_

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’ll come and talk to you.”

“You will? Erm… okay. See you soon, then.”

The detective ends the call and stares at his mobile. He’s going out in public. To the Yard. Where there will be people. _Fantastic_.

\-----

Lestrade pulls Sherlock into a hug, causing the taller man to blink in confusion. “Right. Good to see you,” Sherlock says slowly.

The detective inspector nods and pulls back. “You too, mate.” He hands Sherlock a case folder. “Double homicide. Thought you’d like that.”

Sherlock nods and smiles slightly. “Wonderful. Any suspects?”

“The usual. Boyfriend of one of the victims.” He sips his coffee. “Haven’t been able to track him down. Apparently he’s been on holiday with his parents in Germany. I suppose that’s an alibi.” He sighs.

Sherlock opens the file and scans over it. “Any family members of either of the victims that have a record? Ex-lovers?”

Lestrade shrugs. “A few. None of them with a history of violence. The one victim-” He points to one of the pictures. “-has a father who was abusive, but he’s been in jail for the past fifteen years. We’re starting to think it was a planned murder. Not one of passion. Carefully selected victims and the like.” He doesn’t say any names, but Sherlock knows what he’s thinking. _Moriarty_.

Unlikely, seeing as Moriarty’s body was found on the roof of St. Bart’s. Looked like a suicide. Sherlock was still running over the details of that one in his mind.

Both the men are silent for a few minutes, each muddling over his own thoughts.

“I’ll do a little research,” Sherlock says after a moment. “Get back to you when I get some more information.” _Need to get back to the flat. Another panic attack is imminent._

Lestrade nods. “Right. Thanks for coming out here, mate.” He pats the detective’s back.

Sherlock nods and quickly exits the Yard, hailing a cab. He takes deep breaths. Those are necessary when he feels an attack coming on. Mycroft had taught him that when he was younger and he’d had frequent panic attacks. _Deep breaths, and keep your eyes closed. Focus on one thing_ , he had said. _Something calming. Focus on something calming._ Sherlock steadies his breathing and runs through his list of calming things. _Redbeard. Mummy’s hugs. John._ _My John. The jumpers and the tea and the cane that he didn’t really need and the laughing and smiling and_... Sherlock shakes his head quickly and covers his face, trying to get his breathing back under control. No need to have a panic attack in the back of a cab. _Cabs. With John. After cases they worked on together._ Sherlock groans quietly, feeling himself start to get ill.

He needs out of this car. “Stop!” he snaps at the driver, who quickly pulls over and slams on the brakes. The detective throws a few bills at him and practically jumps out of the cab, finding the nearest alley and leaning up against the cold brick wall. He takes several very deep breaths and covers his face. _Stop thinking about John. You’re only making it worse._ He lets out a strangled cry and turns, throwing his fist into the wall. “Shit!” he hisses. A fist and a brick wall are not the best combination. The skin on Sherlock’s knuckles breaks and begins bleeding. He curses himself and steps out of the alley, looking around for some sort of signal as to where he is. Great. Two blocks to the flat. He begins walking down the pavement, cradling his right hand in his left.

Once back at 221B Baker Street, he swallows hard and goes to Mrs. Hudson’s door, knocking quietly.

“One moment, dear!” the landlady calls.

Sherlock calms himself down again and manages to compose himself before Mrs. Hudson opens her door. “Hello, love,” she smiles. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been such a long time. What can I do for you?”

The detective sighs and looks down at his hand, holding it out to her.

The landlady tuts and holds onto Sherlock, pulling him inside. “Come here, dear. Let me fix you up.” She sits Sherlock down at her table and goes to the cupboard, getting the first aid kit. Sherlock closes his eyes and lays his left hand on the table. Mrs. Hudson sits across from the brunette as she opens the kit. She pulls out some antiseptic and slowly begins applying it to the detective’s knuckles. Once done with that, she pulls out a gauze pad, patting it onto Sherlock’s hand and holding it there. She wraps roller gauze around Sherlock’s knuckles securely and tucks the end under. “There you are, love.” She leans over and kisses the man’s hand. “Can I get you anything else?”

Sherlock shakes his head and stands up, turning to leave. He pauses for a moment and turns back around.

Mrs. Hudson gets up and stands in front of Sherlock. “Love?” she asks softly.

The detective swallows hard and then pulls the landlady into a tight hug, closing his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers.

The woman nods and rubs Sherlock’s back. “Of course,” she says quietly. “Whatever you need.”

Sherlock sniffles and pulls away after a moment, leaving the room and going upstairs to his own flat. He goes straight into his room, tearing off his clothes and burying himself in a mound of blankets, starting to sob.

\-----

\-----

John Watson takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. He’s ready to come back to London.

“It’s open.”

The doctor turns the knob and steps inside the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. “It’s time.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I’m ready.”

“I’ll prepare your things.”

“Thank you.” Pause. “How’s Sherlock?”

“He’s… coping.”

“That’s it? Coping?”

“It’s the best we could hope for. He’s still alive. I made sure of it.”

John sighs. “Alright. Thank you.”

\-----

“Do you have my things?” John asks, pulling on his jacket.

“Of course I have your things.”

The doctor is handed a bag and he nods. “Right. Thank you.”

He sighs heavily and leaves the room, going outside and hailing a cab. He gets inside. “221B Baker Street, please.”

The driver nods and pulls away from the curb.

John sits quietly in the back, going over things in his head. _Hello, Sherlock. No, I’m not actually dead._ Wrong. _Hey, Sherlock. I’m back._ Absolutely not. _Sherlock, I was never dead. I was faking it. I’m back now, though. Everything’s okay now._ John rolls his eyes. Of course not. That’s idiotic. He’ll figure it out when he gets to Baker Street.

Of course he wasn’t actually dead. He’d never do that Sherlock. Never. He just needed to sort things out. Actually, it wasn’t his idea. Moriarty needed to be stopped. It was the only way. Sure, Sherlock would be hurt, maybe even angry with him. But it was _necessary_. He’d never have agreed to anything if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. He could explain it to his best friend once he’d calmed down. Surely he’d understand.

The cab stops and the driver looks in the mirror at John. “We’re here, mate.”

John nods and grabs several bills from his pocket, handing them to the driver. “Thanks.” He takes a deep breath and opens the door, holding his bag tightly. Once on the pavement, the blonde looks up at the flat. It’s just as he’d left it. _Wonder if Sherlock changed the locks_ … He walks up to the door slowly and pulls his keys out, putting them in the lock and turning. The tumbler turns easily and suddenly the door is unlocked. He slowly opens the door and steps inside, suddenly being hit with memories. _“That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” “And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock’s violin._ John takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs.

Once at the top, he lets out a breath and opens the door to the flat.

The sitting room is empty and John can’t hear any noise from the kitchen. “Sherlock?” he calls softly.

There’s a sound from the direction of the detective’s bedroom and John immediately walks toward it, opening the door. Sherlock is lying on his bed, half-unconscious, with a needle gripped in his fist. “Jesus, Sherlock!”

The blonde immediately grabs the needle and throws it in the bin. He sits on the bed and rubs Sherlock’s cheeks, trying to wake him up.

Sherlock mumbles something and then fully closes his eyes, slipping into unconsciousness. 


	2. Breaking Points

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

“I’ve missed you, Sherlock,” John says quietly, looking down at his hands. The hospital room is quiet, the only sounds coming from Sherlock’s machines. “I’m sorry I left. I had to. I couldn’t stay.” He sighs quietly, looking at the pale man on the bed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His voice breaks. “I’m so sorry.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

John sighs heavily and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. “I want to explain everything to you, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left. It’s always you, Sherlock. You’re the reason I kept going, all those times I didn’t want to. You’re… I…” He shakes his head. “It was always you, Sherlock Holmes. I’m so sorry for everything.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

“I suppose I should go tell everyone else. They’ll be worrying.” John sighs heavily and stands up, only to be greeted by the familiar face of Greg Lestrade.

The detective inspector blinks. “John?” he asks, his voice barely over a whisper.

The doctor nods and bites his lip. “It’s a long story.”

At first, Lestrade looks as though he might hit John. “Oh, you bastard!” he growls, pulling the unsuspecting doctor into a tight hug.

John starts and blinks before hugging Lestrade back, patting his back.

Lestrade sighs and pulls away. “You… have you spoken to Sherlock before… this?”

The shorter man shakes his head. “No. I uh… Just got back. Found him.” His voice breaks and he clears his throat.

The grey-haired man nods. “Right. So sorry.” He looks at the ground. “Were you leaving?”

John nods. “Have to go… inform everyone else.”

Lestrade lets out a breath. “I’ll just… mind if I stay here?”

John shakes his head. “Of course not, mate. Take all the time you need.”

The detective inspector nods as John exits the room.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Lestrade sighs heavily and sits in the chair by Sherlock’s bed. “Sherlock,” he whispers. “I found you like this.” His voice is small and quite terrified. “I found you like this and I don’t want this again. Please. You have to wake up, Sherlock. You can’t do this to me.” He takes a deep breath. “After everything we’ve been through. You can’t leave me, Sherlock.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

The detective inspector looks at the clock. Then at his phone. Text from Sally. [Double homicide. Westminster.] He sighs. “I sure could use your help on this.” He shakes his head. “Please wake up, Sherlock. For me.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Lestrade nods and gets up, heading out of the room.

A few hours later, John returns to Sherlock’s room with a bottle of water. “I’m back,” he says quietly. “Told everyone. Mrs Hudson nearly burned down Baker Street.” He chuckles humorlessly. “Harry wasn’t too pleased, either. Your brother didn’t react. He’s so… Mycroft, I suppose. Only word for it.” The doctor looks at his hands. “Lestrade came in here. Not sure how long he stayed. Or what he said.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

John sighs. “I miss you. There are so many things I should’ve said. I’m so sorry that I never did. I… I would say it now, I just… I’m afraid you won’t…” He shakes his head, terrified.

_Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…_

John’s face goes white and he stands up, checking Sherlock’s monitors. No. No, this can’t possibly be happening. Not after…

A nurse comes rushing in and grabs a doctor, John merely falling into the chair and watching in horror as various hospital staff members come in and try to resuscitate the detective.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, his voice raspy. “Sherlock, please. Please.”

The retired army doctor goes to the bed and stares at what he can see of Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock. Sherlock, I love you.”

The nurses usher John from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for this chapter from a short story a friend of mine wrote a while ago. Hope I don't kill any of you. :P


	3. A Still-Beating Heart

_“John, you need to calm down.” Mycroft’s voice is stern and icy._

_The doctor shakes his head. “Absolutely not. He_ died _in front of me. How do you expect me to calm down?”_

_Mycroft sighs quietly. “Alright, I understand. But he’s fine now. He’s okay now.”_

_“He’s not okay! He’s still laying there, unconscious!”_

_The elder Holmes nods slowly. “He’ll be okay, John. Just get some rest, okay? It’s been days.”_

\-----

The smell of leaves burning in the autumn air that was wafting through the window of 221B Baker Street roused John from his fitful slumber, his eyes blinking. He sighs and sits up, running a hand over his face and trying to wake himself up. The doctor rises out of the bed and shuts the window, wondering why he even bothered opening it last night. It’s freezing. He picks up his phone. [4 Unread Messages]. One text from Greg [Doing alright, mate? Text me.], and the rest from Mycroft. [He’s mumbling now.] [He just said your name. Not yet conscious.] [Maybe you should come here.] The most recent text was only sent fifteen minutes ago. John takes a deep breath and types out a quick message. [I’ll be over soon.]

He sets his phone back down on the bedside table and goes to the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He looks much older. The doctor turns on the shower and waits until the water is scalding before stepping in and quickly washing himself.

Ten minutes later, John’s ready to go. He pulls on his coat and steps outside of the flat, locking the door behind him. He hails a cab and tells the driver where to go before sitting back in the seat and closing his eyes. At least Sherlock’s sort of doing something now.

The cab gets to the hospital and John pays the tab, getting out and staring up at the tall brick building. He’s spent far too much time in this place. He walks up the dull concrete stairs and goes back to Sherlock’s room with a wave at the nurse. He sighs heavily when he sees that Mycroft has left and sits in his usual chair next to the bed.

Sherlock’s monitors beep out a steady rhythm, keeping track of the detective’s vitals. Everything seems normal today.

There’s a soft sound from the bed and John looks down at the man, who’s started to mumble quietly. The doctor smiles slightly and leans back in the chair.

Sherlock hasn’t been conscious since John found him in the flat eight months ago. He’s been in the hospital ever since, and he died the one time. John has barely been in the hospital since. He doesn’t even want to be back here now.

But Sherlock needs him. He’s said his name while unconscious. Obviously that means something.

The doctor sighs and sits up a bit straighter, reaching out and tentatively running his fingers over Sherlock’s knuckles. He’d never touched the detective like this, but something makes John feel like he needs to do this. Sherlock’s hand twitches ever so slightly, and if John hadn’t been watching, he might’ve missed it.

_“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

_“Sorry?”_

_“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”_

_“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”_

_…_

_“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Any good?”_

_“Very good.”_

_“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”_

_“Well, yes.”_

_“Bit of trouble too, I bet?”_

_“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”_

_“Want to see some more?”_

_“Oh, god yes.”_

John is hit by the sudden rush of memories and he falls forward, catching his face in his hands and trying to get his breathing back under control. This is too much. No wonder he didn’t want to be here, if this is what was going to happen. Panic attack. Dammit, he hasn’t had one of those since he first left the army.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, trying to calm himself down. “Sherlock, please.”

There’s no sound from the bed and John doesn’t look up.

“Sherlock,” the doctor says again. “You’re everything I have. You’re my best friend and _I love you_.” John’s voice is small and scared, cracking slightly. “I love you more than anything and I’m so sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. If I could take it all back, I would, I promise. I would fix everything and this never would have happened. You _have_ to wake up.”

Sherlock blinks out of unconsciousness slowly, adjusting to the sound filling his ears. _John._ John’s speaking to him and saying things and begging him to wake up. Well, the detective is awake now. He makes a quiet noise, causing John to look up.

“Sherlock?”

The brunette nods slowly, adjusting to the light in the room. “Yes,” he croaks.

John’s face relaxes into pure shock, staring at Sherlock. “You’re… you’re awake.”

Sherlock nods slowly, the movement hurting his neck slightly.

John lets out a sound somewhere in between a whimper and a sigh and stands up quickly, leaning forward to hug Sherlock.

The detective closes his eyes and accepts the hug, burying his face in John’s shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” the blonde whispers, his voice breaking.

Sherlock holds John close, breathing him in. He takes a moment before saying his next thought. “I love you too.”


	4. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback to how Sherlock and Lestrade met. I tried to keep it as on-character from the show as I could. Hope it's alright :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, the first set of texts is not part of the flashback.

_Are you feeling better? –Greg_

**A bit. Not as good as I could be. SH**

_I’m just really glad you’re alright. –Greg_

**Thank you for your concern. It really does mean quite a bit. SH**

_Of course. I don’t want a repeat of when we first met. –Greg_

**No one does. SH**

**Thank you again, for that. SH**

_It’s not a problem at all, Sherlock. –Greg_

**John’s waking up from his nap. We’ll talk later. Let me know if there’s a case. SH**

_Absolutely. Give him my best. –Greg_

\-----

“Sir, there’s another junkie near the scene. Want to pick him up for questioning?”

Lestrade looks up to where the officer is pointing. “Huh? Sure, I suppose. Give him a drug test as well.”

The man nods and goes over to the pale, skinny boy sitting just inside the alley.

A few moments later, the boy is being shoved toward Lestrade, struggling. “Get off me!” He shakes himself away from the burly officer that had a hold on him and glares.

The detective inspector frowns slightly. “You see anything?” he asks the boy.

He snorts. “Did I see anything? I can tell you exactly what happened.”

Lestrade eyes the boy cautiously. “Yeah? What happened? Did you do it?”

The pale boy rolls his eyes. _Why do people always ask that?_ “Sorry to disappoint, but no. It was the victim’s brother. They were drunk and having a row.” His eyes rake over Lestrade quickly. “You’re having a row with your wife. She’s cheating. Three months, she’s been cheating. Are you going to leave her?”

Lestrade blinks. “Excuse me?” _How the fuck…?_

The boy chuckles. “You heard me. I’m not wrong.” He smiles. “Can I go now?”

The detective inspector shakes his head. “Absolutely not. We’re taking you to the Yard. Drug test.”

The brunette sighs and nods. Fuck. “Right.”

\-----

“So. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You’ve been in here before.”

The boy nods. “I go by Sherlock. Yes, I’ve been in here before. The idiots in your department keep picking me up on murder charges.”

Lestrade narrows his eyes. “Right. Why do you keep walking away from them?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Because I’m not a killer. Obviously.” He smiles. “Was I right? About your wife?”

The DI ignores the question. “How many murder charges have you been picked up on?”

The brunette shrugs. “Fifty six. Like I said, I’m not a killer. I show up at crime scenes and try to tell your officers what happened, and they think I did it. Morons.” He shakes his head. “I keep telling them what happened and they seem to be convinced that I’m some sort of psychopathic killer.”

“Are you?”

Sherlock glares across the table. “I’m not a psychopath, I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

Lestrade raises his eyebrows.  “Interesting.” He looks at the file on the table. “You didn’t pass the drug test. What have you got to say for yourself?”

The boy shrugs. “My brain rebels at stagnation. I need stimulation. When I can’t get it from everyday life, I need a little kick.”

The older man nods slowly. “I have a proposal.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I don’t bargain.”

“Fine. Would you like to plead guilty to drug use and possession?”

The boy grits his teeth. “What’s the proposal?”

Lestrade nods. “I’ll forget this drug test ever happened, but you have to get clean.” Before Sherlock can protest, the DI raises a hand. “And you can help me on all my cases.”

Sherlock thinks a moment. He wouldn’t be bored anymore, that’s for sure. He nods slowly. “It’s a deal,” he says softly.

The man nods. “Good. I’ll text you.”

\-----

_Sherlock? It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need your assistance._

**Fantastic. What’s happened? SH**

_Homicide. We have one suspect. Just picked him up. –Greg_

**I’m on my way. SH**

_I’ll have to do a drug test before you can work the case. That’s the deal. –Greg_

**I know. I’m clean. SH**

_Good. –Greg_

\-----

“So, what’s the story here?” Sherlock asks, walking up to Lestrade at the crime scene.

Greg looks over at him and smiles. “Good for you, passing the test.” He points to a dead body.

Sherlock immediately goes to the body and starts examining it. “Asphyxiated. Choked on their own vomit.” He narrows his eyes slightly. “The bullet wound is post-mortem.” The boy stands. “Who’s the suspect?”

“… Can you just let me go? I swear, I didn’t do anything!”

Lestrade looks at the man being brought over to them. “This is Angelo,” he says to Sherlock.

The younger man blinks and looks at the detective inspector. “Why is he the suspect? He didn't do it.”


	5. Six Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six months since John's returned from the dead. Things are going quite well. Oh and there's sexy times in this chapter.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks from the kitchen.

“Ta,” John replies, continuing to type on his laptop.

It’s been six months since John came back from the dead. Both of them are doing quite well. They’ve been a couple ever since, but the conversation that entailed was… interesting.

_Sherlock sits on the bed next to John, watching the doctor as he stirs. The shorter man’s face is relaxed and smiling slightly. Sherlock smiles and pushes the hair out of John’s face, sighing quietly. They’ve been like this for three days now, ever since Sherlock came home from the hospital. Neither of them had said anything, this just sort of… happened._

_John wakes up eventually and smiles up at Sherlock, reaching up and running a thumb over his cheek. “Morning,” he mumbles, yawning._

_The detective smiles softly. “Hello. Sleep alright?”_

_“Fair. You?”_

_Sherlock shrugs. He hadn’t slept. “Alright.” He kisses John’s cheek lightly._

_The doctor narrows his eyes slightly. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”_

_The taller man looks down and then shakes his head. “I couldn’t sleep again. Nightmares.”_

_John nods slowly and sits up, rubbing Sherlock’s back. “You know you can talk to me about these nightmares, right? I used to have them too.” He kisses the man’s shoulder._

_Sherlock shrugs. “I know… I didn’t want to wake you.”_

_John smiles. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I don’t mind, as long as you feel better.”_

_The detective blushes and kisses John lightly. “Thank you,” he whispers._

_The blonde nods. “Of course.” He bites his lip._

_Neither of the two had said those three words since Sherlock was in the hospital, but they needed to, and they were both very aware of it._

_“Sherlock, I think—”_

_“John, maybe we—”_

_They both speak at the same time._

_John clears his throat. “I assume we’re thinking of the same thing… We need to talk about our relationship, yeah?”_

_Sherlock nods. “That’s what I was thinking. We… are we boyfriends?”_

_The doctor shrugs. “I suppose, if that’s what you want.”_

_The taller man nods. “Do you… you like me, right?”_

_John chuckles. “Of course I like you. I love you, Sherlock.”_

_The detective smiles. “I love you, too. Boyfriends?”_

_“Boyfriends.”_

Sherlock brings the tea into the sitting room and sets it on the coffee table, kissing John’s hair before sitting next to him on the couch. “What are you looking at?” he hums.

John quickly closes the laptop. “Nothing,” he says quickly, smiling.

The detective frowns and crosses his arms. “Are you keeping secrets from me?”

The blonde chuckles. “You’ll see soon, my love.”

Sherlock nods a bit and leans into John. “Do you want to watch a film?”

John shrugs. “Sure. What would you like to watch?”

“I dunno. I was thinking you could pick something.”

The doctor thinks a moment. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Sherlock blinks. “A walk? Why would we go for a walk?”

John smiles. “Because I’d like to go for a walk with my boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The detective stands up and grabs his coat, handing John his own. “Anywhere in particular?”

John shrugs. “We can just walk.” But of course, there is somewhere he’d like to go.

Sherlock nods and holds his hand out for John. The doctor takes it and pulls Sherlock out, starting to walk. He swings their hands a bit, smiling. Sherlock looks over at John and frowns. “You lied.”

“Excuse me?”

“There _is_ somewhere you want to go.”

John nods a bit. “Yeah.” He continues walking with Sherlock, smiling.

They stop sometime later and the detective frowns. “John,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be here.”

They’re standing in front of Bart’s Hospital. John takes a deep breath. “I know, love.” He squeezes the man’s hand. “I know you don’t like it here, but I want to fix that. I want you to have happy memories here again so you can continue your work.”

Sherlock frowns a bit. “How are you going to fix it? You killed yourself here. I’m not going to associate anything happy with this building anymore.”

John sighs. “I know, love. Okay.” He takes a deep breath and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small black box.

The detective blinks rapidly when he sees the box. “John,” he breathes. “John, I don’t… I’m not… what are you…?”

The blonde takes Sherlock’s hand, trying to keep him calm. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” He takes a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes. You are… the best and bravest man I have ever met. It would be… an honor to have your hand in marriage. I cannot imagine a life… any other way than being with you. You’re the absolute best thing… that’s ever happened to me. We have endured war… heartache, and tragic loss… I… so sorry again about that last one.” He takes a breath. “To say that you are the… most perfect human being I have ever met would be an understatement.” He pauses. “You’re… absolutely amazing and talented and strong and lovely. I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved in my entire life and I would love nothing more than for you to be my husband, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stares at John, his mouth half open. _John just asked you to marry him. Say something._ “I’m… You…” He swallows hard before squeezing John’s hand. “Of course I’ll marry you,” he breathes before grinning and hugging John tightly.

The doctor relaxes considerably and holds onto Sherlock, rubbing his back. “I’m so glad,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, John Watson,” he breathes.

\-----

The air in the flat is thick with the scent of sex, both Sherlock and John kissing passionately in the younger man’s room. Sherlock is laying back on the bed, John propped above him. The doctor leans down and kisses at Sherlock’s neck, leaving wet kisses down the pale skin. “I love you,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful. So perfect.”

Sherlock moans softly, his breath hitching in his throat. “I love you too,” he manages.

John reaches over, grabbing the lube that they had set out. He pops open the cap and slicks his hand, spreading Sherlock’s legs with his other hand.

The detective spreads his legs further, his cock leaking onto his chest. “Please,” he whimpers. “I need you.”

The shorter man nods and complies, circling his finger around Sherlock’s rim and slowly pushing a finger in. This causes Sherlock to moan loudly, his eyes squeezing shut. John slowly works his finger in and out, stretching Sherlock slowly. He pushes in two more fingers after a considerate amount of stretching. “There you go,” he breathes.

Sherlock breathes heavily, his toes curling.

John pulls out his fingers and rolls on a condom before slicking up his cock. “Are you ready?” he whispers, earning a nod from the taller man. He lines himself up and pushes in slowly. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he whispers, grabbing onto Sherlock’s hips. He bottoms out and stops moving, panting quietly.

Sherlock whimpers and grips onto the sheets tightly. “Wait,” he whispers. After taking a moment to adjust, he nods, signaling for John to continue.

The older man pulls out a bit and starts thrusting slowly, keeping an eye on Sherlock.

The brunette moans and experimentally thrusts his hips toward John. “O-Oh!”

They continue their movements, rocking together. John’s hips start stuttering and he gasps. “Sh-Sherlock, I… fuck!” he gasps. “I’m close.” His voice is raspy and deep.

Sherlock nods and reaches between them, stroking his own cock quickly. “Me too,” he manages, his balls tightening.

John gasps loudly and comes hard, pulsing into Sherlock with a moan of his name. “Sherlock!” he yelps. He continues thrusting, reaching up and grasping Sherlock’s cock in his hand, pulling on it quickly.

“J-John- oh!” Sherlock gasps, coming hard into the older man’s hand. He pants and relaxes back into the bed, his heart racing.

John brings his clean hand to Sherlock’s cheek and rubs his thumb over it, smiling softly. “Was it good?” he whispers.

Sherlock nods quickly. “Really good,” he breathes, smiling widely. “I love you. So much.”

The blonde grins. “I love you too, my beautiful fiancé.”


End file.
